


Just Another Story

by ChristyCorr



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Break Up, First Time, Multi, POV Second Person, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-07
Updated: 2008-05-07
Packaged: 2017-11-04 04:00:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/389512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChristyCorr/pseuds/ChristyCorr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It scarred you—it changed you. Perhaps you moved on; perhaps you never did. That hardly matters. It's over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Another Story

_It begins out of nowhere._

 

You truly notice him for the first time that day, and you aren't ready for it.

You couldn't have expected him to break the mindless routine of your everyday existence by simply _being there_. It disturbs you, and you conceal this reaction out of habit. You are, after all, well-behaved, responsible, clever—predictable, _dull_. He scares you. He's dangerous; you know that he is untameable, perhaps even unachievable. But then again, you like challenges.

You know this allure to be both foolish and self-destructive. Uncharacteristically, you dismiss this reasoning, and put yourself to the task of examining him: his smiles are a bit too easy, his standing a little too casual, his beauty slightly too polished. His charm lies in the appearance that he does not seem to know he has any, but you are almost sure that this is not true.

You decide that this sudden fear is irrational, and therefore silly. You have to approach him and conquer this. He turns to face you, ignoring everyone else. You feel important. (He wants you to.)

"Hello," you say, and your face betrays both the proper shyness and your determination not to let him hold sway over you. You are not like everyone else, and you are desperate to make him see it.

He tilts his head; his gaze is at once a test and a dare. He throws you a grin that seems unique, as if he can see how special you are. A small part of you guesses that he probably makes everyone feel this way. (You ignore it.)

"Hello," he replies, and that's all it takes.

 

 

_It's new and exciting—his interest flatters you._

 

He was close to others before, but you think—you _know_ that there was no one quite like you. For all his joviality, he finds himself pretty much alone now, but he shuns all pity. He laughs so much, all the time, freely, perhaps even honestly; he can't be unhappy, can he?

His magnificent focus is entirely on you now, and it makes you feel light-headed, important, invincible. You adore the way he plays with your mind, the lengthy late-night conversations full of dreams and theories. You sense your brain bending to his will; you let him warp your resolve, your plans, and entice you until you become part of his own.

It feels good not to be strong or rational anymore; you're finally ready to let go. You allow yourself to be won over, and you trust him. Maybe you shouldn't, but it's beyond your control.

 

 

_It's everything but ordinary; it couldn't be more commonplace._

 

He really fascinates you; it's so irritating.

You try to remember that he is just like everyone else—that nothing he says or does can be as extraordinary as it seems. It is futile. Many people before him have fawned over you, praised your brilliance and your many qualities. He makes their admiration sound trivial yet fundamental: of course you're remarkable. How else could you have _him_?

For you _do_ have him, little though he likes to admit it. He's had to give you all of himself to secure you. He can never be anyone else's, because you are exactly the same—well, no, you're direct opposites, but in all the right ways. One would have thought you siblings, if it weren't evident that you grew up worlds apart. Nowadays, it hardly shows.

You try so hard to remain impressive—you read and research behind his back—and sometimes you succeed, but you don't understand how it can be so much easier for him. He doesn't even have to try; he just _is_.

You wonder, sometimes, how it could be possible that he was somewhere, reachable, waiting all along. How could you have ignored the existence of your soul mate? (You never use an expression this disgustingly romantic out loud, of course, but is there any more appropriate?) Maybe he would laugh and scorn you, but maybe (worse, so much worse) he would think less of you for saying it.

 

 

_It absorbs you entirely; nothing else seems to matter._

 

He's a little younger than you, but it doesn't show—you're much more naïve. He seems so seasoned at this, so experienced, as if he's been this close to many others before you. You repeat to yourself over and over again that he hasn't been, because that's what he told you. You try to hide the jealousy that inevitably overwhelms you whenever you consider the possibility of there ever having been anyone else. (There must have been; there _can't_ have been.)

Is this love? You don't know; you've never felt it before. Perhaps he's right not to try defining your relationship, because it doesn't matter. You can hardly help thinking that it does, a little, because if this _is_ love, there's an important boundary in your interaction you have yet to cross. For all your intellectual curiosity, for all your plans, you never discuss sex. (Does he know how often you think about it?)

The thought of another level of intimacy excites you, intrigues you. You've never come close to it before, but you trust his judgment. You waste many hours contemplating whether he will cross the line to initiate it—you never will, naturally. It's up to him.

You wait.

 

 

_It slowly becomes routine, an inseparable part of life._

 

Time passes; nothing happens, and little changes. You still enjoy him as much as ever, but you notice small changes in his behaviour. He seems wary, restless, caged; does he resent you for clinging to him? How could he, if he would never consent to let you go?

He cares for you, though you can never tell how much. You slowly realise that he takes you for granted. He knows you will never be strong enough to leave, knows that you need this friendship far more than he seems to. It's your fault: you revealed your weakness, somehow let it show that he's become everything to you. (Silly, stupid, _dull_.)

You dared to be more affectionate in small ways, thinking perhaps he would do the same. This irritated him. He will never allow you to manipulate him like he does you; it was foolish to try.

You know it's idiotic to wait for him at this point; he will initiate nothing. You hold on to what you have. You open all concessions he wants, you give him anything you imagine he could wish for—anything to keep him with you.

 

 

_It starts to end much too soon._

 

He sees through your carefully built exterior; he knows you want more. He, too, wants more, but in a different way. He demands your complete surrender, but you don't know what else you can give him—surely he does not want you to give up the little pride and independence you retain. They are the only reasons that you can still feel a little equal to him. (Did he ever want an equal?)

He suspects you of holding back, but conceals his frustration with meaningless complaints, so meaningless that not even you are fooled. There is something out of place now; he no longer trusts you.

Still, there is nothing really wrong. Nothing has happened between you, and you want to blame the universe for ruining what you two have. Everything conspires against you. You talk a little less. There is much left unsaid. You're tense.

You cry one night, because you fear that he is slipping away; never before has someone made you weep. You don't want him to leave you behind, and your irrational terror of losing him angers you. You depend on his daily presence to feel like yourself; who knows what you will become without him? You cannot return to your tedious life.

You are still a pessimist at heart—a realist. You are certain that fearing his departure will only hasten its occurrence. You can't imagine how it will happen; you dread it; you wait.

One day, much too soon but not altogether unexpectedly, it happens.

 

 

_It ends with humiliation, but you never quite rue having started._

 

It ends with a regrettable spell and words spoken in haste. You are both confused, lost in almost inexplicable mistrust and bitterness. He forsakes you when you needed him the most—when you counted on him being there, even if no one else would be. What did you care for the presence of other people, anyway? Who else could possibly matter?

("Stay for her funeral, Gellert. Just— _stay_. Please. We'll talk afterwards. Can you stay?")

The betrayal hurts more than his crime. People speak ill of him many years later, and no one could blame you for hating him. Yet no one knows just how deeply it stings; he left you behind exactly when he knew it would hurt the most.

("I knew Sirius suspected me—they all did—but _I_ would never have thought of _him_. He...how _could he_?")

You remained faithful; you remained true. But there's no glory in being left behind. He is your biggest failure, the conundrum you failed to decipher, the loose end you can never tie. It hardly matters whether you see him again, because things can never be the same. The end is finite, absolute. The fact that it's finished matters more than the relationship itself. You cling to the memories, and it is a blessing to have loved him then without knowing his true nature. Your ignorance redeems you.

("You've heard about me and Astoria, I'm sure. You know what that means; I've made my choice. You're not surprised, are you?")

In the end, you weren't worthy of him. He was greater than you, because he was always honest, in his own way; he made little secret of his true character. You always knew he was deceiving you. He would probably despise you for pining after him, for wondering what could have happened. Sometimes you wish you had been given a choice—but no. It couldn't have been any other way, and you know it.

("This new dark wizard—Lord Voldemort—is none other than old Tom Riddle. You remember him from Hogwarts, don't you, Minerva?")

Soon enough, it seems almost sacrilegious to talk about him. You never tell a soul about all that transpired between the two of you. Maybe he has forgotten you entirely. Sometimes, you wonder whether the connection you shared ever really meant anything to him. You once thought no one would know him like you did; now you doubt you ever knew him at all.

("People say he built a secret chamber before leaving, Rowena. He never told you about it, did he?")

There is no doubt that it scarred you. It changed you. Perhaps you moved on; perhaps you never did. Many others have been heartbroken before you; it is a fact of life. You live on, regardless. It's just another what-could-have-been, another disastrous yet predictable series of incidents in one's life. All in all, it doesn't matter to anyone else. It's over.

 

 

_It's just another story._


End file.
